


Tin Roof Rusted

by Anonymous



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Baby, Bipolar Disorder, EMT!Ian, Established Relationship, Futurefic, Infidelity Mention, Jealousy Issues, M/M, Mpreg, OC Male character - Freeform, These Guys Need Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-04-05 06:18:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19042864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Mickey has news for Ian, but he decides to have a little fun with how he breaks it to him.





	1. Chapter 1

Mickey decides he wants to fuck with Ian a little before telling him the news--but not in the way he usually fucks with him. 

He does a quick Google search and finds a site with a list of expressions that are stupid and old-fashioned, but they'll do the trick. He keeps the browser tab open on his phone and waits in the car for Ian outside the hospital.

"Hey," Ian says when he climbs into the passenger seat, kissing Mickey. Mickey kisses back with more ardor than usual, and Ian grins when they break apart.

"Want to order in tonight?" he says, which is code for "Let's stay home and fuck like bunnies," and as much as Mickey loves that idea, he's got a job to do first. 

"Definitely. But first...I got something to tell you." He curls his fingers under the collar of Ian's uniform jacket--damn, he looks hot in it--and can't help softening his voice. 

"What?" Ian matches his tone. Mickey pulls away, gets his phone out of his pocket, and glances at the tab he's kept open.

"I've got a bat in the cave."

Ian blinks, confused. "What?"

"I've joined the pudding club."

Ian's face is a hilarious masterpiece of blank confusion and irritation. "What the fuck?"

Mickey's almost cracking up, but he decides to do one more. "I'm tin roof rusted."

Ian's beginning to look concerned. "Mick, are you having a stroke?" 

"No!" Mickey gives in and laughs, tousling Ian's hair playfully. "Dude, I'm fucking with you. You knocked me up. That's what all that shit means."

"Wha---wait, really?" Ian's voice goes up into a shout. "Holy fuck! Mick! We're pregnant!"

"No, we're not," Mickey says firmly. "Don't say shit like that, or go all sympathetic-pregnancy on me, okay? I'm knocked up, not you."

Ian grabs his head and kisses him so hard he nearly passes out from oxygen deprivation. 

"Okay," Ian says when he finally pulls away, smiling so bright it almost makes Mickey feel like crying. "Okay, fine, you're pregnant. And we're gonna be parents. I love you so much."

"Ah, shut up," Mickey says, because when he's not feeling hormonal all this sappy shit still embarrasses him a little. "Love you too."

**TBC**


	2. The Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey and Ian meet their doctor for their 16-week appointment.

Their doctor is a guy. 

He's hot, if Mickey's being honest. He can't be older than forty, with great cheekbones, really blue eyes, and a smile that indicates he's got a terrific dental plan. If he was a redhead instead of blond, Mickey might actually be veering dangerously into crush territory.

Good thing Ian's own eyebrows lift a little when Dr. Schmidt walks into the room, or Mickey would feel more guilty for thinking that. Okay, they can both perv a little at the hot doc. But if he even thinks about perving back, they're getting a new one. 

"Gentlemen, nice to meet you," Dr. Schmidt says with a warm smile, extending a hand that Ian takes a little too quickly for Mickey's liking. He flicks him on the hip with one hand while giving the good doctor a tight smile in return. 

"You are... Ian Gallagher and Mickey Milkovich, respectively?"

"Yeah."

"Yep."

Dr. Schmidt glances at the chart in his hand. "Not married, I see."

Mickey's hackles go up. "Is that a problem?"

"Oh, no," Dr. Schmidt says mildly. "I just assumed. Sorry." He gives them an apologetic smile, and Mickey feels Ian's hand on his. Calm down is what that touch usually means. He just gives Ian an annoyed glance. 

"So, you're at sixteen weeks," Dr. Schmidt continues. "Any problems I should know about? Anything bothering you at this stage?"

"Everything," Mickey says bluntly, and Ian rolls his eyes because he's heard this all before but fuck it, he's going to hear it again, cause at least this time someone asked. 

"I have to get new clothes cause nothing fits. I can't eat dairy cause it gives me heartburn, I've almost forgotten what beer tastes like, the smell of cigarette smoke makes me want to puke, I have fucking stretch marks on my ass, and the whole miracle-of-life thing feels like bullshit they tell girls just to keep them barefoot and pregnant."

He half-expects Dr. Schmidt to be shocked, but the guy doesn't even blink. 

"Anything else?"

Mickey eyes him suspiciously. "You mean all that shit's normal?"

"Perfectly. In fact, I'd say you're doing better than some people at this stage in the game. Aside from the cigarette smoke aversion--which is a good thing, by the way--has the nausea gotten better?"

Mickey shrugs. "I'm not puking five times a day anymore."

"Good to hear. Any fetal movement?"

Mickey isn't sure how to answer that one. "I...don't know. I mean, I feel some weird shit sometimes, but it's hard to tell if it's the kid or just, like, gas."

Dr. Schmidt nods. "That's also normal. It can be hard to differentiate in the early stages. Does it feel like butterflies or bubbles?"

Mickey thinks both sound insane, but he considers. "Uh...bubbles, I guess."

"That's probably the baby, then. Of course, the easiest way to tell is by seeing what's going on inside." 

He gestures to the ultrasound machine by the bed, and Mickey feels a thrill of both dread and excitement--dread because he's still not used to seeing this weird-ass fucking alien creature inside him, and excitement because every time they do see it, it looks closer to human. 

"If you wouldn't mind lifting up your shirt," Dr. Schmidt says, reaching for the container of gel. Mickey leans back and obliges, wishing his so-called "baby bump" was a little more symmetrical. It looks fucking lopsided to him, which can't be right.

"Hey, uh," he stammers as Dr. Schmidt coats his stomach with the gel. "Is it...am I supposed to look like this? It's kind of...lumpy."

Dr. Schmidt looks confused momentarily, then chuckles. 

"Oh, you mean the shape? Well, carriers tend to have less room to work with than a woman does. Your uterus is in a slightly different location, and more crowded thanks to your narrower hips. So you're more likely to carry lower and smaller."

Smaller. Well, at least he won't be huge. That's some comfort. He tries not to grimace as the wand presses into him--Jesus, all that water he had to drink earlier is not going to stay put if this lasts much longer--and Ian gasps and leans over him, staring at the screen.

"Oh my god. Oh my god, Mickey, look!"

"I know what's--" But he stops dead when he actually registers what's on the screen, and that is definitely a baby. Not an alien anymore. Holy shit. 

"Whoa," he breathes, tightening his grip on Ian's hand. Ian huffs a laugh and kisses him on the head. 

"That's our baby," he whispers, and fucking duh it is, but Mickey understands where he's coming from. The whole thing is blowing his mind, too. 

"Fingers and toes looking good," Dr. Schmidt reports. "Good heartbeat, strong movements--feel that, Mickey?"

Mickey near jumps out of his skin when he sees and feels the baby move at the same time. 

"Yeah," he chokes out. Ian laughs, but not at him. He's still transfixed by the screen. 

"Do you want to know the sex?"

"Uh...." They've had this conversation, and Ian is firmly Team Yes while Mickey is wavering. Seeing it on the screen like this, though, he's pretty sure he knows what he wants. 

"Yeah," he says, giving Ian a nod. "Yeah, let's find out."

Ian's smile goes up another fifty watts as Dr. Schmidt moves the wand slightly to the left.

"Hmm," he says after a minute. "Looks like we're going to have to wait on that. Baby just turned their back to us."

Mickey laughs in spite of himself. "Kid's a little shit," he says out loud, glancing at his bump. He's more disappointed than he thought he'd be, but what the hell, they can find out next time.


	3. Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey gets jealous, then makes a decision.

***  
Mickey doesn't love how well Ian and Dr. Schmidt get along.

He's a good doctor and all, and Mickey would rather have someone who actually knows what this shit is like on his side, but the things he and Ian have in common make him uneasy.  
For one thing, Dr. Schmidt's parents were in the Army. He wanted to be a dancer when he was a kid after seeing Billy Elliot, and that's also how he knew he was gay at twelve. Ian doesn't go into his own dancing experience, but he says he loved that movie as a kid, too. Mickey jumps in about how his favorite movie was Lethal Weapon, and his dad wouldn't let him or his brothers watch anything with dancing unless it was a scene in a strip club. The ensuing silence leads him to believe he interrupted a fucking bonding moment between his boyfriend and their doctor. 

"Sorry to break up your little date back there," he snarks to Ian on their way home. Ian gives him a disbelieving look.

"Mick, come on, we were just talking. I thought you liked Dr. Schmidt."

Mickey shrugs, looking out the car window. "Didn't think he'd start flirting with you right in front of me, that's all."

Ian laughs. "He wasn't flirting! I know from flirting, trust me. We just have some things in common. He talks the same way to you."

"No, he doesn't," Mickey protests. "He asks me about water retention and how many shits I've taken over the past week."

Ian winces. "Well, you're his patient, he has to ask that." 

"I'm not fucking invisible," Mickey growls. "Next time you want to talk to him, would you mind including me in the conversation, seeing as how I'm the reason we're even there?" 

Ian looks serious. "Fine, I will."

"Thank you." He's still pissed, but fuck it. 

***

Ian cheated on him.

Yes, it was years ago while he was batshit bipolar or whatever, but it happened. Mickey was furious and devastated and confused,which was the worst part because Ian had absolutely no fucking reason to cheat. They hadn't had a fight, he hadn't hurt him, and the sex was great. But Ian went right ahead and did it anyway. For no reason.

So who's to say he won't be jerking off Dr. Schmidt during his next manic episode? They already get along so well, and it's not like Ian's his patient, so there's nothing to stop them if they wanted to--

Mickey squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again. He knows he's being paranoid and it's probably because of the fucking hormones, but he can't get the idea out of his head. He doesn't want to imagine Ian shoving his hands down anyone else's pants or anyone else kissing Ian's neck, but it's too easy. 

And yeah, okay, he wasn't a saint when Ian was on the run with his crazy mom and wouldn't answer his calls. He snapped, he had meaningless sex with strangers just to turn his mind off for ten fucking seconds, and he never told Ian about it because by the time they saw each other again, they were breaking up. So fuck it, it didn't matter. Right?

But it doesn't take a shrink to clue him in on where this paranoia's really coming from. They've both made epic mistakes. They've both cheated, even if they never talk about it. And just because they've been together for going on five years and have gotten tested and stayed faithful and all that crap, it doesn't mean it won't happen again.

So what can he do? He can't keep waiting for Ian to screw up, and he can't spend the next four months imagining what he'll do to Dr. Schmidt if his worst fantasies come true, either. He has to talk to Ian about this, even if it makes him sound like a jealous bitch. Even if...even if Ian can't forgive him. He has to say it out loud. 

Ian knocks on the door of the bathroom. "Mick, you okay? You've been in there a while."

"Yeah," Mickey says, coming back to reality. "I'll be out in a sec, hold on."

He was only in there to get some space and think, anyway, so he splashes water on his face and washes his hands just to stall a little. He opens the door, walks over to Ian and takes his hand. 

"Hey. We gotta talk." 

***

It could've gone worse. 

Ian is not happy to hear that Mick cheated on him all those years ago, but he doesn't really have a leg to stand on seeing as he did the same (and without condoms.) He gets how Mickey feels, which is the biggest relief of all, and swears that he's not going to cheat on him with Dr. Schmidt, or anybody. 

"Even now when I'm manic, I'm not as bad as I was without the meds," Ian explains. "I can remind myself that I have you, and the baby, and I can't just go off and do what I want anymore. It doesn't mean it seems like a terrible idea, but...I'm more in control."

That's not exactly a promise, but it's the best Mickey can hope for. He knows that. Hell, if it weren't for the bipolar, they might not even be having this conversation.

"And I remember how I felt afterwards," Ian continues, looking down at the floor. "I remember feeling like complete and total shit once the high wore off. I was convinced you'd never love me again or want to be with me because of what I'd done."

"Yeah," Mickey says, and hastens to add, "That's kind of why I didn't tell you before. But I swear, man, I'm never doing that again. I don't want anyone but you, ever."

Ian smiles faintly. "I know. I'm lucky."

"Lucky?" Mickey scoffs. "Ian, everyone's always telling me I'm the lucky one. 'Oh, your boyfriend's so great, he's so fun, he's so committed to you.' Fucking no one thinks you're lucky to have me."

It slips out before he can stop himself. Ian looks at him in surprise.

"You really feel that way?"

"Come on, dude. I'm Southside trash, always have been. I was a pimp and a drug dealer and a thief...you look like a fucking Boy Scout next to me."

"It's not a competition, Mick," Ian says softly. "We're from the same place. I just had different shit to deal with. I could've been any of the things you were. Hell, I sold meth, started a cult and blew up a bus, remember? Doesn't take much, even without being bipolar."

They sit in silence for a few minutes, but it doesn't feel tense. It feels more like they've cleared the air, and Mickey can actually breathe easier because of it. 

"So....we good?" he says, just to be sure. Ian smiles.

"Yeah, we're good. And for the record, I am lucky to have you. Nothing you say or do will make me change my mind about that, okay?"

"Not even if I tell you this kid isn't yours?"

Ian tackles him backwards on the couch, laughing. "Not even that, cause I wouldn't believe you." 

"Good," Mickey replies, pulling him down for a kiss. "That would've hurt my feelings."


	4. Sympathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Svetlana can relate.

It's been eight years, but Mickey still feels awkward talking to Svetlana about anything that doesn't involve Yevgeny or a potential business arrangement. She may be a communist, but she runs a tight ship and takes no one's shit, which he has to respect. 

Still, he didn't expect her to take one look at him when he came into the Alibi and sent a shot of vodka his way the minute he sat down.

He gives her a look. "The fuck is this for?"

"You look like you need it," she says, stone-faced as always. He flicks the shotglass away. 

"I didn't drink that shit before I got knocked up, thanks."

She shrugs. "Fine." Predictably, she takes the shot back and downs it herself. Mickey shakes his head. 

After a few seconds, she addresses him again. "If you can't drink, why are you here? Customers only." 

He flips her off out of habit. "AC's broken in the apartment. I got sick of sweating my ass off at home."

"Why is Redhead not taking care of it?"

Mickey massages his eyes. "Ian's at work and the repair guy can't come until four. Can I just sit here without being interrogated?" 

She turns her attention to other customers, which is gratifying, until he looks up from his phone and sees her looking at him again.

"What?" he says testily. "You got something to say?" 

"You seem tense," she says, coming closer. "More than usual."

"Fuck you," Mickey says automatically. "We're not married anymore, you don't have to take care of me. Not that you ever did."

She puts a bowl of peanuts down in front of him. "Eat. Not good for baby if you don't."

He's about to tell her where to stick this bowl, but he is hungry and grudgingly pops one or two in his mouth. She smirks. He rolls his eyes in response. 

"Fucking everyone knows what's best for me all of a sudden," he mutters. "It's like they think I'm brain-damaged or something."

"Like you are child," Svetlana comments. "Who somehow doesn't realize he's carrying baby."

Mickey blinks. "I...yeah. Exactly. What, did people treat you like that, too?"

"Both times," she replies with a flick of her eyelashes, which is as close as she gets to rolling her eyes. "In this country, people think if you are pregnant, you are also moron."

Mickey snorts. "Tell me about it. Ian acts like my fucking babysitter."

"Doctors talk to me like I don't understand a word they say," Svetlana commiserates. "Parents smile too much, always ask me how I feel."

Mickey nods. "Yeah. When I say I'm fine, Ian gets worried. When I say I don't feel great, he gets even more worried. I can't fucking win."

"There is no win," Svetlana says, leaning against the bar. "You want advice?"

Mickey hesitates. On one hand, it's Svetlana. On the other hand, she's currently the only person he knows who knows what this pregnancy shit is really like.

"Fine," he says, tossing back some more peanuts. 

"Ignore everyone," she proclaims. "They mean well, but know nothing. Trust how you feel and baby will be fine. Also, shot of vodka now and then makes baby strong."

Mickey's with her all the way up until that bit. As much as he misses beer, he's not about to risk giving his kid Fetal Alcohol Syndrome.

"Great, thanks," he tells her, actually meaning it. It's not terrible advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like Svetlana, and if anyone knows how unglamorous pregnancy is, it's her.


	5. Possessive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian does not want anyone touching Mickey.

It's inevitable that some of the newer customers of the Alibi would notice Mickey was pregnant and make some comments to that effect. He tries to ignore them. As long as he has the bar between him and the patrons, Mickey really doesn’t care what guys like that have in mind. He still has his reputation, and that’s enough to keep anyone from trying anything with him. 

Then Ian stops by to drive him home, and Mickey’s just thinking about how much he’s looking forward to a long foot rub when some drunk douchebag turns around on his stool and fucking touches Mickey’s belly as he’s walking by. 

Mickey shoves him against the bar and yells at him to keep his hands to himself, but Ian takes it a step further and decks the guy. Mickey drags him away before it can turn into a full-on fight, but Ian doesn’t calm down. If anything, he’s more worked up by the time they get home.

“Ian, cool it,” Mickey says finally. “It’s over, you punched the guy’s teeth in. He won’t mess with me again.” 

“Not good enough,” Ian growls, pacing like a tiger. “I’m talking to Kev about that guy. He needs to be fucking banned from the premises. Do any other guys do that kind of shit to you?”

Mickey shrugs. “Some of them say shit, but nothing serious. They’re drunk assholes, it happens.”

“Not to you,” Ian shoots back. “Not anymore. Nobody gets away with that.”

“Nobody did until tonight. And after what you did, I’m pretty sure it’ll be a one-time thing. If it’s not, I’ll handle it. I can still take care of myself, y’know.”

Ian gets in his space and glares at him. “No, you don’t get it. That’s my baby.” He points at Mickey’s belly. “Fucking no one is allowed to touch you as long as you’re like this, especially not someone like that.”

Whoa. 

Mickey’s taken aback and also--it has to be said--a little turned on by how possessive Ian’s being right now. He’s never seen him like this. 

“That’s kind of hot, Gallagher,” he can’t help remarking.

Ian blinks. “What?”

“I said, it’s hot,” Mickey says with a grin, pulling Ian a little closer so their stomachs brush. “Never seen you go all Papa Bear like this before. It’s kinda doing it for me.”

“Mick…” Ian rolls his eyes. “I’m not joking.”

“Trust me, I’m not joking either,” Mickey says, casually glancing down at his crotch. “And I think the best way to get our minds off that douchebag is to fuck our brains out right now. What do you think?”

Ian looks like he wants to protest, but then he sighs. 

“Fine. But I mean it, if anyone does that to you again--”

“I’ll call you and you can come down and help me beat the shit out of them,” Mickey says, reaching up to kiss Ian’s neck. “How’s that for a compromise?”


	6. Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Schmidt and Mickey have a heart-to-heart.

"Is something wrong, Mickey?"

Is something wrong. Is anything right would be the better question. Mickey can't believe he's here without Ian, without anybody right now. He's declined an ultrasound because he can't handle staring at the image of his baby and knowing how fucked up everything is, and the best he can offer as a parent is a blended family consisting of killers, former hookers, thieves, alcoholics and generally fucked-up people, all for a kid who didn't even ask to be created.

"Mickey?"

Dr. Schmidt is immune to his "Fuck off" glares, so instead he avoids eye contact. 

"Ian's having a bad week," he mumbles. "He's bipolar, y'know. Sometimes he gets depressed. That's why he's not here today. He's been in bed for like three days. Nothing gets him up until he's over it."

"That must be difficult for you both."

"No, it's fucking awesome," Mickey snarks out of habit. "Having to do everything by myself while my boyfriend's not even able to take a shower or talk to me. We're living the dream."

Dr. Schmidt just nods, like he hears this all the time. 

"Is he on medication?"

"Fuck yeah," Mickey snaps. "But they're not magic. He has to adjust the dosage when he gets like this."

"I see. That seems to be weighing on you."

Mickey snorts. "I've got a lot weighing on me." He rubs his bump for emphasis, and the little shit actually kicks where his hand is, which makes him want to cry. Again. 

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Mickey shakes his head. "Look, you don't have to go all Dr. Phil. You're not getting paid to listen to me bitch about my life."

"Mickey, I'm your physician," Dr. Schmidt says calmly, sitting back in his chair. "Your mental health is just as important as your physical health, even more so right now. So if there's anything you want to get off your chest, I promise it won't leave this room."

He can say no, he can even walk out of here if he wants to. Except he actually likes Dr. Schmidt and he has nowhere else to go except home to someone who can't be there for him right now, so what the hell. At least doctor-patient confidentiality is good for something.

"I don't know if you've picked up on this, but Ian and I don't come from great families," Mickey says, glancing at Dr. Schmidt. "He got bipolar from his crazy mom, his dad drinks twenty-four hours a day and doesn't do shit for his kids, and my family--" he scoffs--"we make them look almost normal. My dad beat the shit out of me when I was a kid and tried to kill me when I finally came out to everyone, not to mention the time he made me marry a hooker after she got knocked up--"

"Sorry?"

Mickey backtracks, because this is probably too much information for the good doctor. 

"Nothing. Just, y'know, really fucked up families. And that's all this kid is going to know. Hell, it might even be bipolar like Ian, or start doing drugs in middle school, or go to Juvie before he's out of high school. I mean, Ian's been trying really hard and I love him for it, and fuck knows I want to give our kid as close to a normal life as we can, but..."

Now the tears are coming, and Mickey can't hold them all back, so he digs his palms into his eyes. 

"It's all just fucked," he says, wishing there was a better word. "And I can't do anything about it, about any of it. I'm fucking terrible at this already."

"At being a parent?"

Mickey nods, trying not to sob. God, these hormones are turning him into such a--

"Those are perfectly valid reasons to worry."

Wait, what?!

"You saying I'll be a shit dad?" Mickey chokes out. Even if he thinks it, that doesn't mean this guy has the right to make that call. 

"Of course not," Dr. Schmidt says, looking abashed. "I meant to say, given what you just told me, you have every reason to be concerned about your child's upbringing. I've had lots of people give similar reasons why they're afraid they'll make bad parents. You're not alone in this."

Mickey gives a watery chuckle, swiping at his eyes. "I feel alone."

"In that case, maybe therapy would help you," Dr. Schmidt says gently. "In the long run, I mean. But as far as being a bad parent, can I tell you something?"

Mickey shrugs.

"It's the ones who don't worry who have the most difficulty. The ones who think they have everything all figured out. Those people struggle the most when the baby arrives. You and Ian are aware that you come from...less than ideal backgrounds, and you have every right to be afraid how that might affect your child."

Mickey feels like there's something else he should mention. "I, uh...I have another kid, with a woman. He's almost nine. His name's Yevgeny."

"Is he in your life?"

"Yeah," Mickey says with a grin. "Yeah, he visits sometimes. He's a good kid, looks a lot like me. That's terrifying."

Dr. Schmidt smiles. "And how is your relationship with him?"

"Good, I guess," Mickey replies. "I mean, my dad and I literally almost killed each other a bunch of times, so anything better than that's an improvement."

Dr. Schmidt nods, but Mickey sees surprise on his face. You don't know the half of it, Mickey thinks wryly.

"I'm a parent myself."

Now Mickey's surprised. "How old's your kid?"

"Nineteen. His name's Justin. I had him in high school, senior year right before prom. It was all very after-school-special."

Mickey stares at him. "Wait, had him like...had him?"

"Oh, I didn't mention? I'm a carrier, too. Didn't find out until the same day I found out I was pregnant. That was an interesting week."

"Holy shit," Mickey says, a little impressed in spite of himself. All this time he'd thought this guy was just some bleeding-heart who took pity on guys like him and Ian. "And, uh, your boyfriend didn't stick around?"

"He did for a while," Dr. Schmidt says. "But we went off to different colleges after our son was born, and we grew apart. He still checks in from time to time, to see how Justin's doing."

"Must've been rough, having a kid and going to school at the same time," Mickey comments. "Ian's sister had a kid in high school, at fucking fifteen. Everyone told her it was a bad idea, but she didn't listen."

"Well, I don't recommend it," Dr. Schmidt says wryly. "But I do relate to your worries about your ability to parent. And I want you to know it's all entirely--"

"Normal?" Mickey quips, smirking. "Yeah. Good to know."

***

Even though he had more of a gab-fest than a check-up, talking with Dr. Schmidt made him feel a lot better than he's felt in a while. Now he just wants to check in on Ian, and whatever kind of state he finds him in, he's ready for it.

All the same, it's a relief to find him coming out of the bathroom in clean clothes, looking more alive than he's been all week.

"Hey," Ian says when he sees him. "You just get back?"

"Yeah," Mickey replies, tossing his coat on the back of a kitchen chair. "Had a good check-up. How 'bout you, you okay?"

"Yeah," Ian confirms, stretching his neck. "I'm feeling better."

Mickey walks up to him and pulls him in for a hug, which Ian reciprocates. Mickey breathes him in and finally, finally relaxes. No matter what they're going through or what kind of day he's having, this always seems to help.

Eventually, Ian pulls away and puts a hand on Mickey's belly.

"Baby doing okay?" 

Mickey smiles, holding Ian's arm lightly so his hand stays in place. "Wait for it."

"Wait for what?" Ian rocks back on his heels when what's probably an elbow against his hand. "Whoa! Holy shit!"

Mickey laughs. As weird as it is to feel that from the inside, he loves seeing Ian react to it on his end. 

"He's doing great," Mickey says playfully. "Missed you."

Ian stares at him. "He? Mick, did you find out without me?"

Mickey rolls his eyes. "No, don't get your panties in a wad. I'm just guessing."

"Yeah, you've been guessing it's a boy for about two weeks now," Ian remarks. "Do you have, like, a feeling about it? Intuition or something?"

"What am I, psychic?" Mickey scoffs. "No, it's not 'intuition.' I got a fifty-fifty chance of being right, that's all."

Ian nods, grinning. "But do you want it to be a boy?"

Mickey starts to say no, he doesn't care, as long as it's human and healthy. But he pauses. 

"Maybe a little," he admits. "I mean, at least we'd know what we were doing. I don't know shit about girls, and I lived with one growing up."

"I lived with two, and I don't know much about them either," Ian commiserates. 

"Okay then," Mickey says with a shrug. "Let's just hope I'm right."


	7. Moments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two vignettes of weird pregnancy stuff.

Mickey wakes up one morning and Ian's gone. 

He tries not to panic, not to assume the worst and imagine Ian running around the city in a manic haze doing fuck knows what. He checks and sees that Ian's coat and bag are gone, but his phone is turned off and Mickey's about to text Fiona or Lip before he sees the note on the fridge. 

8:00 therapy, work til 6. Love you.

Mickey puts his phone down and draws a shaky hand over his face. "Fuck," he sighs. Right, Ian's therapy appointment. He completely forgot. He's been going in the mornings so he can get to work on time. 

So...he's fine. And Mickey's the one losing his fucking mind, apparently. 

He forgets everything--where he put his keys, when to put gas in the car, and sometimes even where he's going when he leaves the house. It's like half his brain's fallen out and he can't focus on anything anymore. How's he supposed to look after a baby when he can't even remember to put on shoes?

He takes some orange juice out of the fridge and Googles "can't remember anything when pregnant" while he pours himself some cereal. The results are pretty reassuring, informing him that "pregnancy brain" (the fuck? That can't be real) is totally normal and will go away once the baby gets here. Great. Awesome. More to deal with on top of everything else.

He decides to shove this to the back of his mind--or what's left of it--and go on with his day. If he forgets that he's got a hot boyfriend coming home tonight, well, it'll just be a pleasant surprise. 

***

"Miracle of life" shit aside, growing a sentient human inside him is freaky as hell. 

For one thing, his bump always looks a little lopsided or uneven. Nothing like the way Svetlana or Vee looked when they were knocked up. It makes it hard to pass off as anything but weight gain, and it doesn't help that his clothes never fit right anymore. 

For another, even Ian's getting freaked out by how much the baby moves. Mickey had expected him to be into it--get all sappy and talk about how magical it was, just like in the movies--but one night when Ian is kissing his way down Mickey's stomach, the baby kicks and Ian says "Ow!"

"What?" Mickey says, glancing down. 

Ian's actually massaging the side of his face. "He kicked me. I felt it right through the skin."

Mickey laughs and pokes at the spot on his belly. "Hey, no kicking Ian! Settle down in there."

Ian's not laughing. In fact, he looks a little spooked. 

"Maybe we should just go to sleep," he says, crawling up to lie next to Mickey. "I'm wiped anyway--"

"Whoa, wait a minute," Mickey objects. "What happened to the guy who was ready and willing to get me off ten seconds ago?"

Ian glances guiltily at Mickey's belly. "Nothing, I just...it got a little weird."

"A little weird." Well, he's done it now. Mickey sits up and plants both hands on his belly for emphasis. "It's a little weird that you put a baby in me, and now you wanna pretend like it's not even there? Yeah, that is a little weird! It's not like I can just take this off, y'know."

"I know, but he kicked me in the face."

"He kicks me fucking everywhere!" Mickey counters. "I'm pretty sure if he could reach, he'd kick me in the balls! Which, by the way, is what I'm going to do to you if you pussy out like that again, you tease."

"Mick, I'm sorry," Ian protests. "I really am. I wasn't expecting it. It was like he knew where I was and what we were doing, and--"

"Ian, relax," Mickey sighs, remembering how freaked out he got the first time their kid kicked. "He's like a goldfish floating around in there. He doesn't know what's going on or why we're doing it. Trust me, you surprised him more than he surprised you."

"Really? You're sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. We're not scarring him for life, so you can go right back down there and--"

Ian's back under the covers before Mickey can even finish the sentence.


	8. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone is finally ready to join the Milkovich-Gallagher family.

"Two weeks out," Dr. Schmidt says cheerfully at Mickey's thirty-eight week appointment (it feels more like the hundred-thousandth to Mickey, but whatever.) "Getting excited, or just ready for it to be over?"

"Fucking past ready," Mickey grumbles. "I just want it out, and I want to get back to normal again. Or whatever's normal after this." Given the number of stretch marks and the weight gain, he's pretty sure he'll be disgusting, but at least he won't be pregnant anymore. 

"I can relate," Dr. Schmidt replies, probing Mickey's belly. "Justin was a week late, and I was ready to do my own C-section just to get him out. Luckily, it didn't come to that."

Mickey chuckles, then winces. "Fuck..."

Dr. Schmidt still has his hand on Mickey's belly, and he frowns when he feels the muscles tighten.

"Been having a lot of that lately?"

"Yeah, all freaking day," Mickey sighs when it's over and he can talk again. "But it's just the Brexit-Hicks shit, right? It's not real."

Dr. Schmidt glances at him.

"How close together, roughly?"

Mickey thinks. "That one was...like, fifteen minutes from the last one? I had one in the waiting room." 

"Can you talk through the pain?"

"No, but..."

"Do they go away if you drink water or put your feet up?"

"Uh..." Mickey tries to think. He hasn't been very mobile lately, but he's been staying hydrated. "I don't think so."

"Mickey, I think you're in labor."

"Fuck off," Mickey scoffs. "No, I'm not. I got two more weeks."

"Well, you're technically full-term at thirty-seven," Dr. Schmidt reminds him. "And the baby's head-down and you've been having very real contractions for...how long would you say?"

Mickey thinks back. "Eight-thirty?"

"Seven hours already," Dr. Schmidt says triumphantly. "Well, in that case, I think we should call Ian and tell him to take you to the hospital."

Mickey waits for him to laugh and say he's joking, that it's not real labor and it'll stop soon and it's not going to get any worse or mean he's going to have to push a fucking baby out of him a hell of a lot sooner than he thought---

"Mickey? Mickey, breathe, you're hyperventilating."

"No--fucking--shit!" Mickey gasps, wishing he could still put his head between his knees. "I can't--we don't have--haven't even picked out a name--the crib's not done yet--fuck--"

Dr. Schmidt's urging him to take slow, deep breaths, and he does his best. One thought rings through his head--Ian. Get Ian. He has to be here for this.

"Gimme my fucking phone!"

***

Ian drives up in a fucking ambulance, even though Dr. Schmidt's assured them both Mickey's still in the first stage of labor and there's no need to rush anywhere.

"What the fuck, Gallagher?" Mickey can't help groaning when Ian leaps out and rushes up to him like the delivery's going to happen right there on the sidewalk. "You coulda just brought the car."

"Didn't think," Ian says. "I just heard the word 'labor,' and--" He gestures somewhat sheepishly to the ambulance. "Well...it was right there."

Dr. Schmidt coughs, which Mickey's pretty sure is just covering up a laugh. He can't help tugging Ian in to plant a kiss on his cheek.

"Ay, whatever. It's the thought that counts. Let's ride."

***

"Hey," Mickey glances at Dr. Schmidt, who's sitting next to him in the back of the ambulance and looking kind of green. "You gettin' queasy? I thought you'd done this before."

"It's not nerves," Dr. Schmidt replies with a thin smile. "I get carsick."

Mickey rolls his eyes. "Fuckin' great. Ian, we almost there?"

"Five more minutes," Ian says from the front. "Relax, Mick. Do your breathing."

"Fuck the breathing, it doesn't work," Mickey shoots back. "And do I have to stay on this fucking gurney? I wasn't shot--not this time, anyway."

Dr. Schmidt looks at him. "You've been shot?"

"In the ass and the leg, both thanks to that guy," Mickey jerks an affectionate thumb at Ian. "Not at the same time, though. Hurt like a bitch both times."

Speaking of, another contraction creeps up on him and he grips the side of the gurney and--fuck it, there's nothing else to do--breathes steadily until it's over.

"Good job," Dr. Schmidt says, glancing at his watch. "That's twelve minutes apart."

"How much longer I gotta do this?" Mickey sighs. "It's gettin' old." 

***

Ten hours later, Mickey's ready to kill the next person who pokes their head in the door--and so far, that's been everyone from Svetlana and Yevy to Fiona, Kev and Vee.

"This isn't a fucking show!" he shouts. "Jesus!"

He looks accusingly at Ian. "We're not having any more kids if your whole fucking family's gonna try and watch me squeeze them out."

Ian grins. "At least they agreed to wait outside. They just want to be here for us. They love this baby as much as we do."

"No," Mickey says decidedly, feeling another contraction building. "Nobody else is doing this but me, and--fuck---"

Ian grips his hand and helps him ride it out, just like he's been doing since they got here. 

"Okay," Mickey mumbles when it's over. "Maybe you too." 

Ian kisses Mickey's knuckles. "I love you."

"Where the fuck is Dr. S?" Mickey says, looking around. 

Ian shrugs. "He looked kind of pale, but he said he'd be right back. Maybe he's sick."

"Oh, fuck that," Mickey retorts. "I'm not having him puke all over the baby while he's down there. You do it."

"Do...what?"

"Deliver the fucking kid!" Mickey snaps. "You know how, you got training. And it's yours anyway, so why the hell not?"

Ian looks taken aback. "Wait, Mick, we didn't--I mean, Dr. Schmidt's going to be back any second, and you're not even ready to push yet. Let's wait a little bit, okay?"

Mickey folds his arms. "Fine. But if he comes back in looking like he's gonna heave, you're on first."

***

Sure enough, Dr. Schmidt doesn't look a whole lot healthier when he comes back into the room. 

"I'm sorry," is the first thing he says to them. "I think I have food poisoning, I don't know if I can--"

"We got this," Mickey interrupts him. "Ian?"

He sees one fleeting moment of doubt on Ian's face before it's gone, and he's looking at Dr. Schmidt.

"I can deliver the baby, I have EMT training."

Dr. Schmidt blinks. "I...would still feel more comfortable being in the room, or at least calling in a nurse."

"Right," Ian agrees. "If that's okay with Mick."

"Fine by me," Mickey says, holding up a hand. When Dr. Schmidt goes to get a nurse, Mickey gestures Ian closer. 

"I don't care what you see while you're down there," he says in a low voice. "Never fucking me again is not an option."

Ian almost falls over laughing. 

"Don't even worry about it," he says, leaning against the side of the bed. "This is not a deal-breaker."

***

Mickey's made a lot of bad decisions in his life. 

He tried to break up with Ian and kill his dad. He let his own dad dictate who he married and had a kid with. He's had businesses fail (like any good American, fuck you very much,) and been to prison twice, and don't even get him started on Mexico. 

But letting Ian deliver their kid is probably one of the smartest things he's ever done. 

Ian's perfect. He doesn't say stupid motivational shit like it's a football game, he endures all of Mickey's considerable verbal abuse (as incoherent as it may be--turns out it's hard to swear and push out at kid at the same time) and in spite of the entire hell that is childbirth, Mickey feels safe. He knows in his gut that Ian won't let anything happen to him or their baby.

All the same, the three seconds of not hearing his child's cry are the most terrifying of his life. 

"Ian--" 

"He's okay!" Ian assures him. "Just clearing the airway, he's good. He's perfect." He holds up the baby, who is now screaming loud enough to make everyone in the room breathe easier. 

"Holy fuck," Mickey chokes out, not sure if he's laughing, crying, or in shock. "I was right!"

"You were right!" Ian echoes, laughing. He hands the baby to the nurse, who goes to weigh him, and comes back up to Mickey's end. They kiss and hold each other's faces, trying to take in what just happened. They're parents.

"Eight pounds, six ounces," Dr. Schmidt reports, and neither of them can stop smiling. "And nine on the APGAR scale, in case you were wondering."

"Whatever. Bring him back over here," Mickey says, trying to sit up and instantly regretting it. "Shit!"

"Oh, yeah, be careful," Ian says belatedly. "You're gonna be really sore for a while. Good news is, you don't need stitches."

Mickey doesn't even want to know where those stitches would have been, and he doesn't care. He just wants to see his damn baby already.

"Here he is," the nurse coos, handing him to Mickey, who instantly forgets that she or anything else in the world exists because holy crap, this kid is blinking up at him with actual eyes and reaching out with real fingers, and this doesn't feel real at all. Up until today, he was just a weird shape on a screen and a constant sentient presence inside Mickey who liked to kick him in the bladder first thing in the morning without fail.

Mickey tries to focus on one detail at a time. For one thing, dark hair. He's not a redhead, which is a little disappointing but whatever, Ian's only one of two redheads in his family. Then eyes--deep blue, but most babies have blue eyes, so who knows if they'll look more like his or Ian's.

Face-wise, he's....scrunchy. And really red, so the resemblance is up in the air there, too. He only seems to want to stay close to Mickey, and Mickey has no problem with that.

"Here," Ian's saying, tugging at Mickey's shirt, which seems really inappropriate until Mickey realizes what he's doing. "Put him against your chest, skin-to-skin. Helps with bonding."

"Yeah, okay, fine. Take him for a sec." Ian holds the baby while Mickey takes off his shirt, and even though he's a little cold without it, neither of them mind once the baby's safely cuddled up on his chest. 

"Hey, that's better," Mickey murmurs to him. "Nice and warm, huh, buddy?"

Ian's running a finger over the baby's head. "God, Mick, he's...." He trails off, and Mickey grins at him. 

"I know." He glances at Ian's blood-splattered surgical gown. How 'bout you take that off and get over here with us? Matty wants to meet you."

Ian pauses, tugging off the gown. "Matty? That's his name?"

"Yeah," Mickey says, looking back at the baby. "Short for Matviyko. It's Ukranian, and it's not hard to pronounce if we keep it short."

"It's perfect," Ian says, beaming. "Can his middle name be Phillip? I promised Lip."

"Ay, why not?" Mickey rubs a careful hand over Matviyko Phillip Milkovich-Gallagher's back. "What do you think, buddy? You like your name?"

"I need to tell everybody," Ian says, glancing toward the door. "Then I'll be right back, I swear." He leans in and kisses Mickey, stopping to kiss Matty's head while he's there. "I love you so much."

Mickey doesn't care who that's directed to, because he feels the exact same way.


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey and Ian adjust to being parents and look ahead a little.

Two weeks--or eighteen cumulative hours of sleep--later, Mickey, Ian and Matty are back at Dr. Schmidt's office for a checkup. 

"How's he been?" Dr. Schmidt says, smiling down at Matty as he tests his reflexes. 

"He loves eating," Mickey says proudly, letting Matty grip his finger like he loves to do. "Sleeping, he doesn't seem to like. I think he's a morning person already."

Dr. Schmidt chuckles at that. "Any unusual crying or bowel movements?"

"Well, I dunno about Ian, but Matty's fine," Mickey jokes, and Ian elbows him. 

"We had a little trouble getting him settled last week, but he's doing better," Ian reports. "He really likes co-sleeping, which is good because that crib's never getting finished at this rate."

Dr. Schmidt finishes his exam and hands Matty to Ian.

"Your turn," he says to Mickey, who rolls his eyes and gets up--slowly--on the exam table. 

"Still sore?" Dr. Schmidt asks sympathetically.

"Not as bad as before, but I'm not running any marathons," Mickey says. "And the bleeding's stopped." That had been as close to having a period as he ever wanted to get, and he's grateful it's finally over. 

"Good to hear." Dr. Schmidt hands him a paper sheet and Ian helps him get his pants off. Mickey makes a mental note to ask Dr. S when they can finally have sex again, because he has a feeling he's going to start missing it any day now. Once he gets enough sleep, that is.

"You feeling better?" he asks the doctor after the exam. "Not puking anymore?"

Dr. Schmidt smiles. "Well, still on and off, but that's completely normal."

Mickey raises an eyebrow. "Normal for what?"

Dr. S chuckles. "Turns out it wasn't food poisoning. I'm pregnant."

"No shit!" Mickey laughs, and Ian congratulates him. Dr. Schmidt looks happy and a little embarrassed. 

"I found out last week," he explains. "I'm sorry I made you think I was too sick to deliver the little guy."

"Don't worry about it," Mickey confesses. "I probably would've asked Ian to do it anyway. No offense."

"None taken." He looks admiringly at Ian. "You did an excellent job."

"Thanks. I'm just glad he was okay." Matty's making some fussy noises, and Ian glances at the bag they've been taking with them everywhere. 

"Pacifiers are in the inside pocket," Mickey says helpfully. "He likes the blue one."

Ian fishes it out and within seconds, Matty's quiet again. There's a moment where it feels like somebody should say something, but it's hard to know where to begin.

"Hey," Mickey chances it, even though this isn't really the kind of thing he's comfortable with. "Thanks, doc. For everything you did. I'm probably not your favorite patient, but it means a lot that you helped us out so much."

Ian gives him a smile, and Dr. Schmidt actually looks touched.

"Thank you, Mickey."

"Y'know, my full name's Mikhailo," Mickey says, officially bumping this guy up from friend to family. "If you're looking for baby names."

Dr. S laughs. "I'll consider it." He glances at Ian, and even though Mickey knows he's got nothing to worry about--hell, Ian's holding their baby and Dr. S is having his own--he still feels a tiny flicker of jealousy when he sees the warm look that they share.

But he'll let it go. 

Ian extends a hand. "Seriously, thank you. We couldn't have done any of this without your help. I know we'll be coming back, but--"

"For Matty, not for me," Mickey butts in. "I'm not having any more kids."

"That's what I said after Justin," Dr. S says dryly, shaking Ian's hand. "Look at me now."

***

"We're not waiting twenty years between kids," Mickey says later that night as he's feeding Matty. 

Ian looks over his shoulder from finishing the crib. "What?"

Mickey glances down at the baby. "If we have another one, Matty's not gonna be in college when it happens."

"Okay," Ian says slowly. "But you said you didn't want more kids. Like, just this afternoon."

"Yeah, but Dr. S got me thinking," Mickey admits. "I wouldn't mind maybe having another kid. Once I forget how much it hurt, anyway. And when this one's out of diapers."

Ian puts the last screw in place, stands up and tests the sides of the crib. 

"It's ready," he says. "We can try letting him sleep in it tonight, see how he likes it."

"Ya think?" Mickey's kind of gotten used to having Matty right there between them in bed, as soon as he got over the fear that one or both of them was going to crush him in their sleep. 

"Let's just try it," Ian says, seeing the look on his face. "He might cry more the first couple of nights, but--"

Mickey's arms tighten around the baby. 

"Ian, wait," he says. "Look, I'm glad you did all that work, but...can't we just wait a while? At least until he really needs his own bed? I don't--" He curses leftover hormones for how emotional he's getting over this. "I like having him with us."

Ian puts his hands on Mickey's shoulders. 

"Okay," he says, kissing his forehead. "I like keeping him close, too."

Mickey's relieved that he's not the only one feeling this way. 

"What about three years?"

Mickey blinks. "Uh, won't he be a little big by then?"

Ian laughs. "No, not for the crib. I meant what do you think about waiting three years between kids? That's what happened with me, Fiona and Lip."

Mickey thinks about it, letting himself imagine a three-year-old Matty peering through the crib at...a little sister, maybe. 

He smiles. "I like it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this story!


End file.
